


The Merit of Ghosts

by CorvidFeathers



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-25
Updated: 2013-06-25
Packaged: 2017-12-16 02:57:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/856974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorvidFeathers/pseuds/CorvidFeathers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jehan returns from an adventure in the catacombs a little worse for the wear and discusses the merits of ghosts with Bahorel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Merit of Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> I sat there staring at the computer screen for some time trying to think of a decent title and then gave up.  
> Uploading some drabbles from tumblr.

Bahorel was sitting in the Musain, nursing a hangover. Joly and Combeferre, the only other occupants of the back room at that moment, were sitting at another table and conferring in low tones over stacks of notes relating to upcoming exams at the medical school. Combeferre’s calm tones drifted over to Bahorel’s corner, replied in Joly’s worried voice. The sound of the rain and wind outside filtered through the roof as the café groaned under the weight of the weather. 

Bahorel was content to lean back in his chair, pressing the cool surface of the glass he was holding to his temples and closing his eyes. He was vaguely aware of the upcoming exams in his own classes, but he had carefully avoided attending even the bare minimum of required classed this quarter, so he had most likely been struck from the books of the instructors already, and if not there was still time to be. Either way he saw no reason to worry.

The sound of the rain had almost lulled him into a doze when the door to the backroom of the Musain was flung open. Bahorel started, his hands curling into fists, almost expecting the rough accusations of gendarmes and the flash of carbines.

Instead in waltzed Prouvaire. He was dressed in a waistcoat that was a particularly vivid shade of purple, and a hat that had once sported a large, fluffy white feather, and now supported the weight of a soaked feather that hung limply down with Prouvaire’s dusty brown hair. He was absolutely soaked through, the color of his waistcoat muted in places with splashes of mud and grime. There were bright spots of color on his cheeks, and his eyes shown with a feverish intensity.

Bahorel raised a hand in greeting. It took a moment longer for the two medical students to notice Prouvaire, as they were absorbed in their notes.

“Where have you been?” Combeferre asked, glancing up for a moment. “There was a meeting last night.” His tone was sharp, but there was an undertone of worry. Prouvaire’s whims were flighty, but his dedication to the Amis was not.

Jehan looked abashed. “I got lost.” 

“Lost?” Bahorel broke into the conversation with a laugh. “For an entire night?”

Combeferre frowned, glancing at his pocketwatch and beginning to gather his notes and the heavy medical texts that were spread out on the desk. “Jehan, opium may inspire poetic visions, but-“  
“No, no,” Prouvaire shook his head. He took a step toward’s Combeferre and Joly’s table and stumbled, stopping to put a hand against the wall. “It wasn’t in my own mind I was lost, or I would have found my way out to heed Enjolras’s call. I got lost in the catacombs.”

This statement made Joly snap his head up, staring at Prouvaire in horror. “Do you have any idea of the miasmas that a place like that collects?” he exclaimed, paling.

Combeferre slung his bag over his shoulder, tapping Joly’s arm. “We’ll be late if we don’t leave now.” He cast Prouvaire a concerned look. “I’d advise you to get some proper, Jehan. Joly’s right- spending a night in the catacombs is far from healthy.”

Prouvaire waved his hands in a vaguely affirming gesture. “I bow to your wisdom.”

This drew a laugh from Combeferre as he donned his coat and hat and beckoning Joly as he stepped through the doorway out to the hall that led to the main rooms of the Musain.  
Prouvaire stared in the direction they had left for a minute, but his attention seemed to be elsewhere. He was still leaning against the wall, strangely quiet for having returned from such a Romantically exciting adventure.

“Are you well?” Bahorel asked offhandedly. Looking closer, he noticed what Combeferre and Joly had missed out of haste- beneath the grime and flush of excitement Prouvaire was pale and trembling. The hand pressed against the wall of the café seemed almost to be holding him upright. 

“I have never been better,” Prouvaire exclaimed, bursting out with all of his youthful vitality and stepping towards Bahorel’s table. He promptly contradicted himself by stumbling again and trailing into a fit of coughing.

Bahorel hesitated for an instant, and then stood to take Prouvaire’s shoulder gently and guide him to a chair. Prouvaire collapsed into it with no protest.  
His sheer lack of dramatics worried Bahorel. He was usually nearly as bad as Joly when he was ill, monologueing about his clearly impending death and taking great pleasure in the thought of wasting away.

“What possessed you to seek out the catacombs?” Bahorel prompted with a good-natured grin. It was only natural Prouvaire would be intrigued by a place where death was amassed so richly.  
Prouvaire’s eyes lit up with that same wild intensity that Enjolras possessed every time he gave a speech. It was rarer to make an appearance in Prouvaire, but when he was particularly inspired by something he could leap into passionate soliloquy about a patch of flowers or the latest edicts of the King or the plight of the starving workers, or whatever had inflamed his poetic sensibilities. “Down there in the dark, with only a guttering flame and the specter of death for company, you remember the joys of life and the sun and light all the more clearly. Lost in such a place, in the cold and the dark, it is like being in the embrace of death before slipping back to the living, like a lover slipping away from his mistress. It is moments like that that embody the essence of the sublime.” Seemingly having expended his energy on that metaphor, Prouvaire closed his eyes, bending his head forward.

“I’m glad you found your way out. The Revolution would be lacking without poetic inspiration,” Bahorel said, putting a hand on Prouvaire’s shoulder. The poet’s shoulders were shaking slightly as he trembled. 

“Down there the bones of the common people mix with those of their oppressors,” Prouvaire said, lifting his head. “There is an equality in death, one that we can only hope to mimic in life. The bones of a prince, a king, a duke, mixing with those of a pauper who died without a soul to remember them nor a penny to their name-“ His words were quick, beginning to run together until he broke off in another painful fit of coughing.

“A fitting arrangement,” Bahorel agreed, frowning and sitting back down in the chair beside the other man. Prouvaire’s seemingly fragile exterior and flights of fancy concealed a strong, opinionated young man who could hold his own in a brawl. But now the impassioned gleam in his eyes was too bright, too glassy, and he was trembling like a leaf. 

“Sometimes… in the dark, with the flickering lights, I swear I saw phantoms rising from those bones,” Prouvaire mused, running a hand through his hair. “Think of all those who dwell down there! Perhaps even Robespierre and Danton and Desmoulins… think of what they could tell us, what advice they could give!”

Bahorel laughed. “No doubt Enjolras would give an eye to speak to Robespierre, but I think phantoms are best left to their own revolutions. We learn what we can from history, and forge ahead from there. Think of what a tyranny it could be, if men could rule others’ actions from beyond the grave.”

Prouvaire contemplated this for a moment, resting his forehead in his hands. Most of the grit on his face had been wiped away by his sleeves, leaving his pallor and flushed cheeks even more apparent.

“Getting lost in the catacombs may be good for your spirits, but as Joly feared, not for your humors,” Bahorel said, taking a flask from his coat and offering it to Jehan. “Perhaps more spirits would balance them.”

Prouvaire accepted the flask with a small smile and shaking fingers. He tried to take a swallow and managed to spill brandy down the front of his waistcoat. “Sorry,” he said, shaking his head and handing the flask back. “In the face of so much darkness, the light is still blinding.”

A statement which fell just short of making sense, and one Bahorel would have dismissed as poetic license if Prouvaire hadn’t looked like he was about to pass out. “You’d do well to follow Combeferre’s advice and get some rest,” he said.

“Bahorel, advocating Combeferre’s advice?” Prouvaire blinked. “Perhaps I immerged from those tunnels to a different reality.”

Bahorel laughed. “I will take Combeferre for his word on all matters relating to medicine, and most of his claims regarding weapons. Temperance is a different matter- though in this case, I will cast my ballot in favor of his ruling, as much as a loath to compare any of our number to a judge or to any personnel of the law.”

“I am overruled,” Prouvaire said with a laugh, standing up. He swayed, and Bahorel stood in time to catch his arm.

“Come back to my rooms,” Bahorel said. “They’re closer, and I have a spare mattress, where Bossuet used to roost before he found a more permanent eerie with Joly.” At Prouvaire’s faint protests he added “The weather is brutal, and Joly would absolutely forbid anyone with even a touch of a fever to go out into it for longer than necessary.”

Prouvaire’s protests faded to a hum of assent, and he leaned against Bahorel as they headed back through the passageway through the kitchens and out to the front room of the Musain. Outside the rain had yet to let up, pouring down in barrage after barrage of icy droplets. 

They stepped out into the weather. The wind caught at their clothing, trying to divest Bahorel of his hat, but he managed to keep hold of it. His garret was only a few blocks away from the Musain, but Prouvaire’s clothes were still damp from his adventure in the catacombs and his trek to the Musain, and within a block his trembling had increased to violent shivering.

Bahorel put an arm around his shoulders to shelter him from the storm.


End file.
